Growing Puddles of Red
by Self-Inflicted Insanity
Summary: "I could get killed for this," Birdy thought. But that didn't stop her from doing it. (Or: Birdy decides to investigate some of Sabretooth's old memories, and then has to make a split-second decision about what to do with what she sees.)


**AN:** I promised I'd write this for Lucky's Girl a few months ago – so here it is, finally :)

I've never read any of the comics with Birdy, and have only read fanfics with her, so that was all I had to go off of. And even then I decided to do something a bit different with her character from what I've seen, because…

Well, just because I felt like it, really. I like doing stuff that's different. But I guess it technically makes my version of Birdy OOC.

Hopefully though it's interesting, at least!

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 **Warnings:** Warning for gore – because, you know, Sabretooth. And also warning for child abuse/torture. (But my descriptions are pretty abstract, so I don't think it's really that bad... but I figured I'd put a warning, just in case.)

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 **Growing Puddles of Red (and piles of pointed teeth)**

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" _Friends love misery, in fact. Sometimes, especially if we are too lucky or too successful or too pretty, our misery is the only thing that endears us to our friends."_ \- Erica Jong

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Sabretooth was asleep.

Sabretooth was asleep, and he looked more guarded than when he was awake; six-foot-six and 275-pound frame curled up in a ball, and Birdy suspected it was an instinct to reduce surface area against low temperatures, and to protect his vitals against potential attackers.

(The relaxed posture he adopted when he was conscious was an illusion.)

He was asleep on the bed, but as usual, he wasn't actually under the blankets, sleeping fully clothed on top of them. As far as she could tell, he never got cold, and hated anything that could hinder his movements, always ready to attack at the slightest sense that something was amiss.

She sat on the edge of the bed, reaching over and combing her fingers through his mane of blond hair. He didn't stir.

She wondered if it was because, subconsciously, he no longer regarded her as a threat; or if it was because he was really so exhausted after going on a rampage earlier until she finally managed to shove enough dark memories into the back of his head for him to calm down.

It didn't matter. This was her opportunity.

It really was frustrating, having to shove the memories to the back of his mind over and over again. They never stayed there. Something kept dragging them out, where they'd wreak havoc until she chased them back, and it was like herding cats. Herding especially vicious cats.

She couldn't make a more permanent way of containing them when she had no idea what the memories were, only perceiving glimpses of shame, terror, and pain; flashes of color, an occasional image that was too brief to register, or made no sense out of context.

It would be impossible to solve the problem if she didn't know what problem was, and she wanted to solve the problem.

(Obviously because Sabretooth with a more stable mental state would result in less danger to her, and not at all because she was starting to care on a more personal level. Not at all.)

Satisifed that Sabretooth would not wake, Birdy retreated from the room; she needed neither to touch him nor see him in order to astrally enter his mind, and putting some distance between them would give her a higher chance of surviving if Sabretooth did in fact awake.

Birdy settled against the wall on the opposite side of the mansion—fit with a security system and nicely manicured lawn—that Sabretooth was using as a base of operations, and prepared to astrally enter his mind.

And she thought: _I could get killed for this._

The way her heart was beating faster made her smile.

(She would never have had become a mercenary if she shied away from things that could get her killed.)

It was hard not to smile around Victor Creed.

(She tried, though.)

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Birdy had never felt any other mind like Victor Creed's; his mental state made her think that immortality was a curse.

To experience so much but not have the ability to forget, centuries-old memories as sharp as if they'd happened yesterday; it seemed like a surefire way to drive someone insane.

To be unable to die but have a life destined to be filled with so much pain, and to be unable to forget any of it; it seemed like some kind of profound torture you'd find described in holy scripture about the punishments given to sinners in hell.

To live knowing that everyone and everything but you would eventually come to an end; forcing someone to watch as the people they loved died was possibly the cruelest form of punishment, and it was one inherent to the state of immortality.

(She did not envy him his healing factor.)

Victor Creed was not sane, and he was not well. She did not think anyone in his position could be.

She found herself somewhat in awe of his resilience, as she traversed the shadowed and bloodied paths of his mind. To live through so much pain, but to keep pushing forwards despite that; to get up every time he was pushed down, and to keep walking; to find reasons to keep going. Even if they weren't good reasons, the fact that he could find any reasons at all was something she couldn't help but admire.

But then again, he didn't exactly have a choice, did he? Giving up wasn't an option if you couldn't die; there was no escape.

She wondered, sometimes, what her life would be like if she'd been born with Victor's healing factor. She hated the realization that she would have ended up much the same; everything he was seemed practically _elemental._

She hated the thought that there was nothing she'd been able to do for him, aside from shoving the most painful memories into corners where he'd be less likely to trip over them in the darkness and spill their caustic contents across his consciousness.

She realized, as she pushed her way into the darkest recesses of his mind, that what she was doing was probably just some desperate attempt to change _something,_ because the idea that she could change nothing had never sat well with her.

If she could just find the root of his pain—his most painful memories, his greatest fear—then she might be able to do something about them; because if she knew what they were composed of then she could figure out how they worked their way back into his thoughts, and if she could figure out how they worked their way back into his thoughts then she could come up with a way to prevent that from happening.

Viewing someone else's memories, after all, was not the same as experiencing them.

Memories had a way of morphing: transforming or fading; warping or clarifying with hindsight; soaking and fermenting in the emotions that arose each time they were recalled.

This had a tendency to blind people, because people became convinced that their memories, and everything they thought about their memories, were true.

But Birdy could not be blinded by emotions that were not her own; she saw them clearly, no tinted veil in her vision, and she could figure out how to manipulate those emotions—and thus the state of the entire memory.

Victor Creed's mind, though, was not like any mind that Birdy had ever before touched.

In the darkest depths of his mind, the memories she found were ancient; over a hundred years old, and brewed in so much emotion that they had an almost alcoholic potency, lurid and nauseating:

Child hands adorned with claws, dripping with blood; a boy on the floor in a growing puddle of red, eyes staring sightlessly ahead; the taste of pie on a tongue running over sharp teeth.

Cold metal chains around thin limbs; fingers missing their nails and dripping with blood, throbbing with pain; mouth filled with thick, hot blood, the taste overpowering; holes in gums, throat hoarse from crying; rusty pliers glinting in dim light; growing piles of teeth and claws on the floor.

Mad, cruel blue eyes in a harsh, tanned face; words ringing around the cold, empty space that smelled of rot; accusations that could not be denied because there were the stirrings of a demon deep inside.

Hunger so intense it was agony; agony so terrible it was a hunger. The glint of rat eyes in the darkness; the sensation of salivation.

The feeling of nails and teeth regrowing; the sound of footsteps echoing; feelings of dread and panic coiling.

Fury and terror; helplessness and self-loathing; desperation and a scorching hatred.

The taste of flesh and the pain of flesh being torn into; the crunch of bones between teeth and the agony of those bones breaking; a hand falling to the floor, splashing limp and disembodied in a puddle of red; the sensation of pulling a bleeding stump through cold chains; the sensation of standing and walking like it was something foreign and nearly forgotten; watching bones and flesh reknit; trying to move once-dead fingers and watching them finally twitch.

Burning, burning rage; a dead man on the floor in a growing puddle of red, cruel, blue eyes unseeing; burning, burning satisfaction.

Bare feet on the forest floor; the thoughts _never again, never again, never again, never again, never again, never again—_

Terror and rage; police officers lying dead in growing puddles of red, eyes unseeing; the thoughts _never again, never again, never again, never again, never again, never again—_

Lying metal rail after metal rail after metal rail after metal rail; an old, sneering face, glinting cruel eyes; a dead man on the ground in a growing puddle of red; the thoughts _never again, never again, never again, never again, never again, never again—_

Birdy was thrown violently, feeling like she was going to throw up but she couldn't even breathe, a hand tightening around her windpipe and claws threatening to pierce through skin, and there were mad amber eyes, lips curled in a snarl, glinting fangs, rancid breath hot on her face and did Victor Creed even bother to brush his teeth—

" _Get outta my head!"_

Her lungs were burning, black spots swarming in her vision. "Need to make sure… it never happens… again..."

The floor met her knees; there would be bruises later. The hardwood was cool against her palms, her heart pounding in her chest, pale blue hair brushing her nose, vision swimming, breath rasping in her throat. "Never again..."

He staggered, roared, claws swinging for her face and she threw herself out of the way and slipped back into his mind.

 _Never again,_ she thought, and started smudging the memories and then filing them away, carefully labeled: _These are things that will never happen again._

(Shoving memories into dark closets wasn't enough; they needed also not to topple out whenever he opened the door, and their edges needed to be softened so they could be handled without drawing blood.)

When she returned to her body she was gasping on the floor, clothes soaked with sweat and heart pounding. There was a stirring next to her; when she rolled to her side, amber eyes were staring at her calmly.

"What did ya do to me, bird?" He pushed himself languidly into a sitting position, shaking his head slightly, mane of blond hair swaying. "That was different from what ya usually do..." he trailed off, and it didn't seem like he was going to finish the thought.

"I made sure some of the memories that are always bothering you wouldn't bother you again," she said, when she was sure her voice wouldn't quaver, pushing herself up and holding his gaze when she was sure her arms wouldn't shake.

He narrowed his eyes, and they flashed. _"What did ya see?"_ he demanded, fear masked by anger, a threat in his tone; his question had a right and wrong answer.

She exhaled, inhaled, exhaled, held his gaze and waited for her heart to slow. "All I did was move some stuff around," she said; he would be able to tell if she lied. "That was it."

He relaxed, nodded, stood up. Muscles rippled in his arms and back as he stretched; his spine cracked. "Don't ya ever go inside my head without my permission again, ya hear me?" He rolled his shoulders; the bones popped in their sockets. "Ya won't make it out alive, the next time."

She stared at him, mind racing.

Victor Creed had made too many terrible decisions and done too many horrible things for her to pity him; but he was too miserable for her to hate him.

(Trying to hate him for what he'd done was like trying to hate fire because it burned, and trying to pity him for what had happened to him was like trying to pity flames for being lit; she couldn't do either.)

(And she'd always been one to play with fire.)

"Yes, boss."

He sent her a scrutinizing glance, eyes narrowed, before turning and exiting the room; his footsteps, as always, were completely silent.

She watched him go, because she would not have been able to hear him leave, and fought to keep the smile from her lips even as she finally let herself start shaking.

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 **END.**

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 **AN:** I kinda feel bad this piece was so short, lol. But it just felt best to keep this piece as simple as possible, and to have everything happen in quick succession while not dwelling on any of the images or emotions too much. The goal of this was to create a kind of adrenalin-high pacing, and to portray the gaps in rational processing that come with that.

I don't know whether I succeeded in that goal, but. I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
